


Via Con Me

by Gemenied



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Either they were desperate to see him in black tie or they've found the ideal torture method for Boyd. Grace cannot really decide. And Boyd has issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Via Con Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Not the show, not the characters, not the song. Not even a bottle of either wine (which is a true shame). I just have fun with it all.
> 
> A/N: This little thing comes with a daft and, I guess, with a fluff warning. Not much in terms of plot. Just fluffy daftness. And a song - which was not the original plan, but upon finishing it seemd incredibly appropriate. Many thanks go to the awesome ShadowSamurai83 for the beta - and to the rest of the OHT.

**Via Con Me**

The atmosphere in the car is very tense and Grace is at a loss as to why that is. Of course she has an idea, which starts with a 'D' and ends on 'iplomatic bash', but Boyd's reaction is very atypical for that.

Grace, being Grace, is an expert on Peter Boyd's negative reactions to things that go against his likes and wishes, and a sulky silence is not the kind of response he normally shows in reply to being paraded around and being forced to play nice and polite.

No, the expected reaction is magnificent swearing, moaning, groaning and complaining that she either ignores as far as possible or reacts to. That always depends on her own level of exhaustion or annoyance with the previous evening. In turn, her (non-) reaction always causes him to rise to it, one way or the other, and either after a while he calms down, or he laughs, or they row magnificently. It always depends on just how much stroking of his own ego he has managed to squeeze in between being annoyed.

Well, tonight he is very quiet; in fact, he is silent and staring straight ahead at the road. Boyd hates diplomatic dos, so it was a shock to hear he had been invited. As it stands, Grace can't, for the life of her, figure out why the Met took the risk.

Her own invitation had been a given, non-negotiable, but either somebody upper in the top flights of the Met considered it a particularly funny and sadistic way of torturing Boyd...or...the Met grapevine had been working overtime. Wrongly, of course.

It's getting funny that after almost ten years there are still people who really believe they do the dirty deed outside office hours. It wouldn't be dirty (much) and Grace is not entirely averse to the endeavour, but there's no sign of it anywhere. At times, Grace wonders how those people can call themselves police officers when their detective skills are so under-developed.

The mystery of why Boyd was invited is still not solved, though, because the only explanation - very off the wall, obviously - is that the Met bosses wanted to subtly and tacitly give their okay to their relationship. That's both stupid and laughable, because there is no relationship and the upper echelons of the Met are not subtle.

That leaves only the particularly absurd torture method, which isn't completely beyond certain people of rank. Grace could immediately name a few. Oddly enough, most of them are women.

She gives her companion a furtive glance. Either they really wanted to see him in a dinner jacket or they get off on torturing Boyd. If it was the first, Grace is quite grateful for the idea, because Boyd cuts a striking figure in a dinner suit. If it's the latter, poor women. So little imagination...

Still, Boyd's current silent brooding remains unexplained. The banquet went rather well, as far as she could gather, the DSI having been on his best behaviour indeed. The food wasn't bad, the wine even better. One can assume austerity has not yet hit the Met's party purses. But since they cut off money for real policing, a lot is probably left for such bashes.

If Grace is honest, she did enjoy the evening very much, which has a lot to do with the quality of the wine (Burlotto's Monvieglero, if anybody's asking, and Amarone, though of lesser quality) and with the company. The latter one is why she has been invited.

She must have made some noise while burrowing deeper into her seat, because all of a sudden she can feel Boyd's eyes on her. It's the first actual sign of life in him since they've gotten into the car, so Grace sits up straighter again. Boyd watches her all the time; since her time in the hospital he doesn't make a secret of his constant observation of her person, at times he is not even subtle about it, and Grace feels warmed by the concern that is indicated by the act. Tonight, however, it feels a little accusing and a little intrusive as well, mainly because she can't gauge the thoughts behind his gaze.

"You alright?" she finally ventures, realizes that those are the first words either of them has uttered since he's gone to get both of their coats.

He makes a noise in reply, though she can only distinguish it because of the movement of his Adam's apple. Other than that, he shows no reaction, except that she can still feels his eyes on her. Outside it is raining heavily and dark, turning the city into an altogether abysmal scenery.

Guido was polite, but it was his main complaint.

Poor sod, Grace thinks. London in November must be pretty much the most depressing place for a man like him. Duty tours of the diplomatic kind are not his thing either - he and Boyd have that in common - but as a high ranking man in Italian Police forces, he has seen enough of the world to know a thing or two about abysmal weather conditions. About other things as well, but that's beside the point.

Their dinner conversation was stimulating, funny even, and a welcome chance to practice her all but dormant language skills. Grace has never considered herself something of a language expert, but a somewhat distant past, with very fond and golden memories, has left some Italian in her mind. It's really water under the bridge, had been a very conscious decision on her part, so Grace does not think back on it much.

"Met seems to have a lot of money left to serve the wine they did," she comments lightly.

Boyd doesn't react at first, if anything, his brooding becomes even more intense, but finally - and it seems like it costs him some great effort - he grunts out, "Not a fiver a bottle then?"

Inordinately glad to hear his voice, Grace snorts lightly. "Make that at least ten times as much, if they got a bargain, and you get close to it. That was 'dress and serve to impress'."

He only grunts in reply and for a while they are silent again. Only this time she feels the strain even more painfully. It makes her fidget, the only reconciliation is that he isn't calm either. They have a good ten minutes to sort this out, before they reach the curb outside her house. If she hasn't made him talk by then, she'll never get an answer. Somehow, though, it seems important to find out what's bugging him.

A few moments of fighting with herself - history shows that direct questions towards his emotional situation lead directly to spectacular rows, followed by magnificent sulking on both their sides; exhausting but true - Grace finally pulls up the courage to turn around and opens her mouth.

"How do you know?" Boyd's question hits her squarely, deflating her courage and her thought process.

"Uhm...what?" Not the most eloquent reply, but she's at a loss for the moment.

"The wine, how do you know?" he asks, as monotonous as possible. A ploy, instinct tells her, quickly supported as her brain and her experience in all things Boyd reasserts itself.

The quick, witty and slightly mocking reply is on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back. It takes some effort, but something in Boyd's face tells her that he's building up to reveal more than he is even aware of.

"My very distant past," she begins, eyeing him carefully.

He is good at masking his emotions, nobody that knows better than her, but this time he isn't quick enough, or actually not even trying.

"How distant?" It still sounds monotonous, but in a flash Grace is confronted with an idea - quite an unbelievable one and therefore slightly laughable, but she doesn't laugh - that takes her breath away.

Recovering, she opts for a quiet, but distinct, "Extremely."

Something in his posture changes, almost minuscule in its scope, but Grace Foley is indeed an expert in reading Peter Boyd, so she does notice. He relaxes, minimally.

"So, 50 quid a bottle would be a bargain, you say?" A ploy again and this time it makes her smile.

"I don't think the Met got one, though."

"Bloody hell, there goes my pension." He groans theatrically.

They are both relaxing, avoiding the topic that burns in his mind, relishing in the easy back and forth. It helps, but at the same time it is frustrating them both. He wants to ask, needs to ask, and she needs him to ask the question so that she can answer and then return the ball to his court as it is.

Only a few crossings until they turn into her street and their short bout of banter fizzles out, leaving the silence heavy again.

"You speak Italian!" The announcement comes suddenly, and while from anybody else it would seem like interest or admiration, from Boyd it sounds like an accusation, which it is, Grace realizes with a wry shake of her head. He accuses her not of the ability - which probably just surprises him, though it is stated very clearly in her CV - but of the how and where she acquired it. And of the fact that she didn't tell _him_ about it before.

"A little rusty, but yes, I do."

The earlier flash of an idea takes shape, life-size and inevitable. Boyd really heads for something, something they both already recognise, and he's fully aware of where it will lead them.

The last corner, her street, a parking spot free, right before her door. He stops the car there, but makes no attempt to get out of the car, help her out of her seat and do all the common things two platonic friends do when they return from a night out. In fact, he only takes off his seat belt so that he can turn towards her, watch her face while he asks and she replies. A street light is a few yards away, so it is light enough inside the car for him to get a sharp view of even the tiniest movement betraying her words.

Two can play that game, she decides, and turns towards him as well.

Raising an eyebrow, she issues the challenge for him to start.

"Italian and expensive Italian wine?" Damn...if she were a linguist, she'd point out that his words only _imply_ some sort of question or demand, yet do not make it explicit. For a brief moment, Grace considers to flippantly point out that yes, she speaks Italian and likes to drink expensive Italian wine, if for nothing else than the variety from expensive French wines.

It must show in her face, for his expression turns a tad darker. "Where did you meet that man?"

He's asked this question before, not in the same words and usually in a different context - professionally (at least to a part) - but this is far from professional, for they are sitting in his car in the middle of the night, both still dressed up and the tone in his voice contains nothing of the usual shouty gruffness. It's still gruff and still impertinent, but it is personal.

Jealous.

"Guido?"

He cringes at the name and at the same time tries to hold in the smirk. Not a good reaction, if he wants her to be truthful. However, the twin reaction goes utterly wrong, screws up his impression and, being at times a lot more quick-tempered than Mr. Mercurial himself, Grace snorts.

Loudly. Mockingly.

That doesn't go over well.

"I don't like him!" Boyd declares like a petulant child. Not at all befitting a rather mature, very handsome man in evening finery, but the light and its shadows give his appearance an extra edge. Which he definitely doesn't need to distract her. He does, so she forgives him.

Catching herself, she flees into teasing. "And that affects Guido how?"

Boyd can growl with the best of them at any time, but at this moment, he goes for Olympic dimensions. "Every time we come across an ex of yours, we tumble into particularly gory cases," he announces and because he is absolutely serious about it, she doesn't slap him.

Besides, she is incredibly amused now and a girl needs to take all the fun she can get when she can get it. Dragging him inside and into her bed to kiss and shag him senseless is, at least for the moment, still out of question, so her entertainment needs to be differently obtained.

"I doubt that a Colonel of the Carabinieri would hide a life-size skeleton in his hotel closet."

Knowing that he's on the receiving end of ridicule, Boyd glowers even more intensely.

"Besides, if all my ex-lovers are so dangerous, then it's a good thing that Guido isn't one of them, I guess."

There's silence while he tries to gauge the truth of her statement, as well as all the undertones. He's not very successful, his perpetual lack of ability in reading women throwing him for a loop. So he goes for his usual approach, straight on, forceful. Raising his hand, he cups her cheek, exerting a bit of force to make her look him directly in the eye.

The touch is electric, the atmosphere in the car suddenly charged with something they usually push away. Only this time it is a battle of wills - him pushing her to divulge more, her pushing him to put the why into words. Their eyes are locked, intensity sizzling along the connection.

"You're a bloody tease, Grace."

No further words are said as Boyd, quite decisively, closes the distance and kisses her. It might be the first time, it might be that neither planned on doing it, but the moment they kiss, they both know they are going to be overwhelmingly good at this with each other.

It's all lips and tongue and a hint of teeth too. Finesse, experience, plain compatibility - it's all there and all incredibly good. Heat rushes from their kiss, from his thumb caressing her cheekbone, while the rest of his fingers gently, but confidently direct her, to her stomach and lower. It centres, snowballs and rushes out as shivers over her skin.

He notices, a slight smile that she feels in their kiss, flitting over his face. Yeah, he is that good.

One of them groans and as they part to gulp in air, Boyd realizes it's him.

Grace doesn't bother to hide her smirk in triumph.

"I know," she says.

A little dumbfounded, his previous words are forgotten under the tingle on his lips, the sudden potency of her perfume in his nose and the warmth of her skin still a tactile sensation against his palm.

Grace turns to open the door on her side, quietly confident that while the evening is over, the night is only just beginning, gives him a sly look over her shoulder. Almost dizzy with excitement, her voice takes on a husky roughness that she can see affects him on a very carnal level.

"Nightcap? I've got some of that Burlotto's inside."

He doesn't reply, but even before Grace has managed to fully upright herself beside the car, Boyd is next to her, taking her elbow and leading her inside. And though he never planned to learn any, he'll be taught some Italian before the night is out.


End file.
